I’ll be at the New York Technology Council on Thursday evening for a panel on “Protecting Your User Experience Design.” I’ll be talking about big trends in intellectual property: software patents, patent reform, and the rise of platforms. Fun for all!
I don’t know which is the more remarkable: that Carissa’s Wierd, long dormant, is playing new shows or is releasing new material. Damnably, I missed the two New York shows, but I have the two new songs, and they’re stunning. “Tucson” begins with the repeated line, “You’ve been gone so long; you can ne’er go home again.” The band doesn’t try: the new songs pick up where they might have been if they’d been active for the past decade. In a sense, they have: most of the band’s members have been pursuing other projects. And they’ve been collaborating, in a sense: Sera Cahoone’s solo albums and Mat Brooke’s work with Grand Archives featured guest support from other members. The reassembled Carissa’s Wierd is older and deeper, sadder but less angry, and if anything, even more impossibly gorgeous.
Download this now, and put your headphones on.
In tribute to Steve Jobs (1955–2011), a reading from Douglas Coupland’s Microserfs:
When we returned to the house, my friends were gathered around Mom, in front of a monitor, their faces lit sky blue; they had forgotten to turn on the lights in the kitchen. Mom’s body was upheld by Bug and Abe inside a kitchen chair, with Michael clasping her arms. On the screen, in 36 point Helvetica on the screen of a Mac Classic were written the words:
i am here
Dad caressed Mom’s forehead and said, “We’re here, too, honey.” He said, “Michael, can she speak …”
Michael put his arms over Mom’s arms, his fingers upon her fingers and assisted her hands above the keyboard. Dad said, “Honey, can you hear us?”
He said to her, “Honey, how are you? How do you feel?”
Michael broke in. He said, “Mr. Underwood, ask your wife a question that only she and you would know the answer to. Make me sure that this isn’t me doing the talking.”
Dad asked, “Honey, what was your name for me, when we went on our honeymoon on Mt. Hood. Can you remember?”
There was a pause and a word emerged:
Dad collapsed and cried and fell to his knees at Mom’s feet and Michael said, “Let’s push the caps-lock button. Capitals make easier words; consider license plates. You’re a State of California vanity license plate now, Mrs. U.”
The caps were locked and the point size lowered. The fingers tapped:
Dad said, “Tell us how you feel … tell us what we can do . . .” The fingers tapped:
I FEEL U
I cut through the crowd. I said, “Mom, Mom … tell me it’s you. Tell me something I never liked in my lunch bag at school … ” The fingers tapped:
Oh, to speak with the lost! Karla broke in and said, “Mrs. U., our massage … is it okay? Is it helping you?”
The fingers tapped:
GR8 I LK MY BDY
Karla looked at the words and, hesitating a second, declared, “I like my body now, too, Mrs. U.”
Mom’s assisted hands tapped out:
Karla lost it and started to cry, and then, well, I started to cry. And then Dad, and then, well, everybody, and at the center of it all was Mom, part woman/part machine, emanating blue Macintosh light.
Thank you, Steve.